


Never Regret Thy Fall

by DaraOakwise



Series: Every Sinner Has a Future [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Julius is a carer, M/M, Malcolm is brilliant but damaged, Mental Health Issues, Ollie is a prat, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 18:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaraOakwise/pseuds/DaraOakwise
Summary: With the election on the line, Ollie wades into something he should have left alone, much to Julius's rage, and Malcolm's suffering. A story at its heart about Malcolm Tucker and Julius Nicholson.





	Never Regret Thy Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely set in the same universe as my story "Every Sinner Has a Future." Can be read on its own. Rated for sex and language.

 

_Never regret thy fall,_

_O Icarus of the fearless flight_

_For the greatest tragedy of them all_

_Is never to feel the burning light._

\- Oscar Wilde

 

Julius Nicholson collected his papers from Malcolm’s office, where his mercurial boyfriend had been editing them over the weekend. He sorted through them and smiled at the clever wordplay Malcolm had scribbled in the margins. He reminded himself not to hand this draft to his PA, lest the poor girl be scarred for life with visions of her boss’s sex life. She’d met Malcolm, of course—and in fact they were allies in a number conspiratorial plots against Julius—but it would be unprofessional to subject her to Malcolm’s more wicked double entendres.

The man himself was installed on one of their big leather couches, feet up on an armrest with head on the other, a decorative pillow stuffed under his shoulders. The morning news droned in the background, wittering on about the upcoming election. Malcolm smiled wickedly when Julius leaned over for goodbye kiss. Julius moaned a half-hearted complaint when Malcolm deepened it and pulled Julius down onto the couch.

“Don’t be naughty,” Julius managed hoarsely after a moment, reluctantly wiggling away from Malcolm’s stubble-rough kisses up his neck and his teasing hands. Julius stood and re-buttoned his trousers over a _completely inappropriate_ bulge he’d now have to will away—not helped, thank you very much, by Malcolm’s lingering leer.

Malcolm shrugged and picked up his discarded paper, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

Julius paused at the door and looked back at Malcolm, who was engrossed in the news again. “Please don’t sink into the election shit today,” he reminded his boyfriend earnestly.

“The election is fucked,” Malcolm complained, flicking through the paper.

“Exactly,” Julius sighed. “Seriously, Malc,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out, his mind already moving forward to his busy workday.

“I could blow it up,” Malcolm muttered balefully, and Julius’s heart plummeted. When Malcolm was burning in mania, Icarus near the sun, he really _could_ topple governments, and it was intoxicating. But also profoundly unhealthy. Which was why Julius met with his own therapist twice a month, to maintain his own equilibrium and perspective. The meds had _finally_ been working again _,_ and so _that_ kind of comment from Malcolm was more than enough to turn Julius straight around.

Julius looked down with concern at his much-beloved but unstable partner, and Malcolm glanced up at him past his newspaper, surprise shifting to mulish exasperation.

“I said I _could,_ not that I _would_ ,” Malcolm said. “Jesus Julius, don’t be a fucking mother hen.”

Julius dropped his briefcase, then turned off the television and plucked the newspaper out of Malcolm’s hand before sitting down on the edge of the couch. “Please,” Julius said urgently, cupping his lover’s face so he couldn’t skitter away.

Malcolm’s gaze flickered: defiant, irritated, guilty, resigned. He slapped Julius’s hands away and stood to pace, then turned, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

Julius evenly returned his glare, unfazed, until Malcolm gave an aggravated sigh and plopped back down beside him. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, then mussed his fingers through his hair. “They’ve fucked it so badly it itches behind my eyeballs,” he admitted. “But that’s all it is, I swear.” Julius studied him, not convinced. “Don’t fucking psychoanalyse me,” Malcolm snapped, on his feet again.

The moment hung in the balance. If Malcolm stayed, like a normal person, he was fine. If he left, …Julius sighed when Malcolm stormed out of the room. Julius collected his briefcase, hesitating with indecision. “I love you,” he called across the house.

“Fuck off,” Malcolm’s voice returned from somewhere distant.

Julius’s annoyance carried him out the door, but his worry stopped him again just outside the threshold. He flipped through the calendar on his mobile and was calculating whether he could cancel his day when the mobile pinged an arriving text. Malcolm.

_I’m fine, don’t worry your baldy head about me. Going to the gym for a swim then working on the book. No election shite. x_

Julius took a deep breath, tapped out another _love you_ , then headed for his waiting car.

Later, he’d wish he’d stayed.

 

—-

 

Dan Miller glared at his Director of Communications. “We are going to lose this fucking election,” he growled.

“Yes,” Ollie Reeder said with a sigh. “Well spotted. I’m fucking aware of that.  Everyone is fucking aware of that.”

“Call Malcolm,” Miller said flatly.

Ollie stared across at the leader of his party—well. For a little while longer, in any event. “Malcolm. Tucker? Malcolm Tucker.  Who walked out of this building two years ago into a fucking police investigation, Malcolm Tucker?”

“He was exonerated,” Miller said with the irritating faux patience that grated on both Ollie and the electorate.

Ollie leaned back in his chair.  “Well, yes, _technically_ …. Fuck it.  I tried to reach him two weeks ago.  There is this …” Ollie waved his fingers, “whispering that he’s out there. Pay him enough, he’ll fix your problem, Malcolm Fucking Tucker will. There is just one tiny little issue: no one knows where he is.  No fucking phone number, email, web page, directory listing.  Nothing.  He’s a ghost, whose number apparently gets passed around on the back of napkins, which must immediately be eaten so it disappears back into a dark shithole.”

Dan Miller pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Did you try Julius Nicholson?”

Ollie boggled.  “Julius Nicholson? No, why the fuck …?”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Dan exploded. “They’ve been together for _five fucking years._ Jesus Christ, it was the worst kept fucking non-secret in politics. And you _didn’t know?_!”

Ollie gaped. “I thought he was married. Had been married. To, you know, a woman.”

“It’s the fucking twenty-first century,” Dan said witheringly. “Also, there was never a good time to ask ‘so, Malc, gay and closeted, or bisexual?’ I can’t really think of an universe where that kind of conversation would have gone well, can you?” Dan stood and stalked for the door. “Do your fucking job and fix this.”

 

—-

 

Beyond the odd cool nod at fundraisers, Ollie hadn’t seen Julius in years. He was, somehow, unchanged. A prominent and respected member of the House of Lords, he was ostensibly a declared member of the Party, but had not been interested in having anything to do with the official Party leadership for years. Much to Dan Miller’s irritation, and thus Ollie’s because he had to listen to Miller complain about it.

After a wait that was just long enough to be intentionally rude, Nicholson’s PA showed Ollie back to the office, with no offer of tea or biscuits.

“Oliver,” Julius said coldly, barely glancing up. “It’s been a long time. I thought you’d be busy updating your CV, since you’re about to be out of a job. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Ollie rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m trying to get a hold of Malcolm.”

Nicholson clenched his jaw, then slowly took off his glasses and steepled his fingers. “Malcolm? Let me think …. There is a William Malcolm over in Transportation. And Malcolm Smith, a particularly noxious MP in the other party.”  Julius replaced his glasses and leaned again over his work. “If you’re not capable of using the government directory, surely your PA is.”

“You know perfectly well who I’m talking about,” Ollie sighed.

“Do I?” Julius asked with an entirely feigned disinterest, not looking up.

Ollie fidgeted. “Malcolm. _Your_ Malcolm. Tucker.”

Julius stood and pretended to inspect his bookshelves. “And why,” he said mildly, “the _fuck_ do you think I would, in any way, facilitate such a meeting?”

“We are going to lose the election,” Ollie said. “Badly. Not just a loss—not even a coalition. Barely an Opposition, frankly.

“Of course you’re going to lose,” Nicholson snapped, and rounded on Ollie. “The Party unceremoniously dumped the one man who might have saved them, and now that you are completely destroyed and desperate you _dare_ to want him back? No, Oliver. No. Leave him alone. Malcolm and I have worked far too hard these last years to achieve a kind of precarious equilibrium. I’ll not have him waste that on the worthless sacks of utter ….” he took a breath. “... uselessness that make up the present leadership. Present company most certainly included.”

Ollie felt his temper slip. “You’re just going to hand the country to —“

“ _I_ have not done any any such thing,” Julius interrupted hotly. “How dare you. It is you, not I, who has managed to alienate the entire electorate in two years. _You_. It’s time for you to leave, Oliver.” He smiled nastily. “Well past time.”

Ollie had never heard a ‘good day’ sound quite so much like ‘fuck you.’ Julius’s reaction confirmed Malcolm’s location, though, and Julius’s home address _was_ in the Party fundraising rolls. Which was how Ollie reluctantly found himself loitering by some hedges until he summoned the courage to ring the bell.

“Yes,” he lied brightly to the houseboy who opened the door. “I have an appointment with Mr. Tucker.”

The man frowned. “There wasn’t anything in the diary for today.”

“Ah, well,” Ollie said, and pushed his way inside, to the man’s palpable displeasure. “An oversight, I’m sure.”

“Wait here. Do you have a card?”

He did, and handed it over to the man, who squinted suspiciously from the card to Ollie and then turned away.

Ollie took a deep breath and glanced around the house. Tasteful, surprisingly modern and airy for its age, it was many times the size of anywhere Ollie had ever lived. Ollie immediately hated it as much as its occupants.

And then, there it was, a familiar voice, from down the hall, and from his nightmares. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

And the houseboy again, more quietly: “...sounded … me too … away?”

“Naw, fuck it.”

Before Ollie could brace himself, the man himself was striding down the hall toward him. Older than he remembered, hair a touch longer than he’d ever seen it and more white now than silver at the curling tips. Still whip-thin, but not gaunt, and half-rumpled with two days of stubble on his chin. Ollie tried, very hard, not to cringe back from the force of nature bearing down on him.

“Foetus boy,” Malcolm greeted him in apparent bafflement, hands on his hips. “Fucking hell, son, didn’t anyone tell you that gaining 80 pounds in two years would kill you fucking dead?”

Ollie self-consciously smoothed his hands down the front of his suit. “Hello, Malcolm, you’re looking well.”

Malcolm blinked and shook his head. Apparently satisfied he wasn’t hallucinating, he gestured at Ollie to follow. “I was getting lunch. Have you eaten? Aside from the tubs of lard and your morning half-litre of vodka?”

“I’ve …. No, Malcolm, I’ve not eaten, but…” Ollie trotted after his old mentor-slash-enemy. He wasn’t sure where he was expecting Malcolm to lead him, but a gleaming kitchen wasn’t it. Several pots of delicious-smelling something were bubbling on the stove. Malcolm pulled out two shallow bowls and plated the food, then chopped some herbs with a terrifying knife at a speed that made Ollie nervous Malcolm was going to lose his fingertips. Herbs on top, Malcolm slid a bowl down to Ollie and tossed him a bottle of water, which Ollie fumbled but managed not to drop.

“What is this, then?” Ollie asked, bemused.

“Vegetarian curry.”

Ollie laughed. “Veg curry? What the fuck?”

Malcolm pointed the knife at him. “You can’t live on fucking chips and beer, young man.  I can smell you getting scurvy from here, eat some vitamins before your fucking teeth fall out.”

“This is actually….really good,” Ollie said, and ignored the monster leaning casually on the table across from him in favor of the food.

They were halfway through one of the more bizarre, silent lunches of Ollie’s life when Malcolm’s mobile beeped a reminder. He glanced at his watch, then stood and dug through a drawer and made no effort to hide the pills he swallowed with a gulp water. “Ollie,” he sighed. “Why are you here?”

“The election is fucked,” Ollie said dully, stirring the remains of his food. “Our internal numbers are even worse than the public polls.”

Malcolm lifted a brow. “And you thought, what? You’d come check with me, to see if I had any ‘Get Out of This Fucking Election Free’ cards left from when I sold my soul to the devil?”

“Worth checking,” Ollie sighed wearily.

Malcolm was up and pacing. “Three weeks. Three weeks until the election, and you show up at my fucking door, expecting me to do something about the fact that the Party has been spewing shit all over the electorate for the last two fucking years?”

Ollie shrugged.

Malcolm ran a hand down his face, then grimaced. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll get you some notes.”

Ollie sat up, sensing a rare victory. “No, we need you to come in.”

“Come in?” Malcolm asked flatly. “Come in. To the office I last walked out of on my way to be fucking arrested? Walk past the fucking _press_ into _your office_ . And that will help _how_ , exactly?”

“Look, Malcolm,” Ollie insisted, “I figure there is about a 70 percent chance no one will give a fuck. Two years makes that ancient history, it will be ‘Malcolm who?’”

“I don’t disagree with that,” Malcolm said with a shrug. “It’s the fucking 30 percent chance of a headline that says ‘In Act of Desperation, Fucked Party Gets Washed Out Criminal in to Consult,’ that I’m worried about.”

“Malcolm Tucker was completely exonerated,” Ollie said, his tone shifting as if he were talking to a particularly thick reporter. “It’s offensive and frankly slanderous to keep bringing that up. He was a valued and central member of this party for years, and in honour of that service we’ve asked him to consult here at the finish line of this important election.” His tone shifted back to conversational. “I’m only saying that if a reporter fucking asks me. If no one cares I’m not going to fucking underline it.”

“Not bad,” Malcolm said, tilting his head. “You aren’t _complete_ shite. It still stinks like the cum-crusted fuck-sock you leave under your bed.”

“But you’ll come in?” Ollie pressed. “Today? Now?”

Malcolm fiddled with the dishes, half moving to straighten up before sitting again. “You don’t know what you’re fucking asking me,” Malcolm sighed.

Ollie’s patience snapped. “Here you sit, in this Fine Fucking House. And God only knows how, but you spun your way out of a fucking _felony conviction_. And you probably get eight hours of sleep a night, and three meals a day of fucking organic produce, and you probably go to the fucking gym, and have a partner who has ‘suck Malcolm’s dick’ written in calligraphy in his calendar every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning. And I fucking hate you.”

“You done?” Malcolm asked mildly.

“I’m … fuck,” Ollie sighed.

“Yes, well said,” Malcolm growled. “It may make you feel better to know that when I lost the career I’d worked my _fucking life_ to build, I was in the middle of my worst manic episode since my mid-twenties. Followed by,” Malcolm jabbed a finger violently at the floor. “The most profound cunting depression of my fucked life, which is really fucking saying something. I resigned, got arrested, and spent _five fucking weeks_ in hospital, while Julius, Jamie, Sam, Cal, and my sister rotated sitting with me so I’d never be alone. Somewhere in there someone told me they were dropping the charges, which affected me just about as much overhearing a stranger on the Tube mentioning that they’d had a great morning shit.

“And I’ve spent the last two fucking years fighting every fucking day to stay steady. And a fucking major part of that is _fucking self care,_ fucking eating food that isn’t full of shite, sleeping like a normal person, ruthlessly pruning the fuckwits out of my life, and yes, a sainted fucking partner who will take my hand and take me bed when he knows I need fucking chemicals in my godfucked head that don’t come from a cunting _pill._ And all of that, and a fuckload of pills a day, and therapy twice a week, and I’ve only been in hospital _four fucking times_ in the last year, so I’m doing a lot fucking better.”

Ollie cleared his throat into the silence. “That. God. Doesn’t actually make me feel better, Malcolm. I mean, it _should,_ but it doesn’t,” Ollie sighed. “I didn’t know. You hid it well.”

Malcolm boggled at him. “No, I fucking didn’t. The meds worked better then, but didn’t you ever see me,” he mimed a ricocheting bullet off the walls. “Fucking _Nicola Murray,_ the politician with no brain, fucking picked up on it after a week DoSAC. And I know in Opposition you saw me taking pills every damn day. At some point, did you not open up my desk drawer and take a picture of the drugs, and then fucking Google it?”

Ollie rubbed his forehead. “Did I ever undertake a massive breach of your privacy? No, Malcolm, I didn’t. Plus, you were on our side, I didn’t need blackmail material on you.”

“Jesus F. Christ,” Malcolm groaned. “The Director of Communications, ladies and gentlemen, for the Party of Perpetual Opposition. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you didn’t know I was queer as fuck.”

Ollie looked up at him.

“Fucking fuck me,” Malcolm said wearily.

“Look, it’s not for me,” Ollie said quietly, changing the subject back to the matter at hand. “Not for Dan Miller either. I’m asking for the party, and for the country: if there is anything you can do, we need you to do it.”

Malcolm stared across at Ollie, jaw working. “I can’t turn the election. But I can tighten it up. Flip a few races. Make the cunts sweat. Shift the story from an historic pummeling to a plucky eleventh hour surge that gives a spark of hope for the future. You’re fucked. Fucking Dan is fucked. The Party is fucked, but maybe I can squeeze some lube in first.”

Then Malcolm hesitated. “Unless you are serious about the ‘save the country’ bollocks, my little shithead. Because I have three bombs in my desk drawer that would take down Dan Miller and his cronies. And the three more packages—you pick one—to install a new Leader. But I can’t explode them, I’m too far out. And they can’t be remote detonated. You’d have to strap them to your vest and walk into a fucking market.”

Ollie boggled at him. “Ok, setting aside your breathtakingly inappropriate analogy—and it had better be a fucking analogy—you want me to explode the party leadership? _Now_? And myself, while I’m at it, I assume.”

“It’s fucking scorched Earth,” Malcolm agreed. “No predicting the exact consequences. The Party will probably still lose, although strange things happen in chaos. But instead of a slow mutual clusterfuck over the next year while the party pisses all over itself like a senile pensioner, _you_ pick the future. Four weeks from now I’ll be writing a eulogy for the Party in the papers, and you’ll be selling chips out of a stand. This is it, for you and for me. Last chance. Your call.”

Ollie knew he was gaping like a fish. “No. Malcolm, no I can’t. Even if I wanted to. I’m Dan Miller’s man, and I’ll see it through to the end.” He squirmed under Malcolm’s level stare.

“I can respect that,” Malcolm said, in a tone that clearly indicated he didn’t.

“You won’t explode them yourself?” Ollie asked, suddenly panicked. “The … the bombs?”

Malcolm sighed. “I told you I fucking can’t.”

Ollie felt a lurching sense of disheartenment at the admission. “But you will come in today, to consult?” he pressed.

Malcolm grimaced and pulled out his mobile. “I’d better let Julius know. He … won’t be pleased” Ollie looked over Malcolm’s shoulder, and Malcolm gave him a sidelong glance.

“What, you want to see if I sext with my boyfriend?” Malcolm asked. “Julius has great dick pictures …”

“No, no no no,” Ollie said, backing away in horror.

“I’m fucking kidding. Julius doesn’t send dick pictures, he’s far too posh, it’s all me, here, see…” Ollie knocked over a chair  trying to escape. “Your loss,” Malcolm shrugged, then tapped out a text and recited for Ollie’s benefit: “ _Fuckboy Reeder is here. Election is fucked, wants me to come in. Reeder offered threesome in exchange. Will blow me while you take him up the arse. Offer too good to refuse so am going in_.”

“Do _not_ push send on that, Malcolm, I swear to God…”

Malcolm smirked and handed Ollie the mobile. The text said: _Reeder is here. Election is fucked. Going in_

The mobile immediately chirped in Ollie’s hand, three texts in a row:

_No._

_Malcolm I’m fucking serious don’t even_

_I’m calling now fucking pick up_

The mobile rang. “Lord Nicholson for you, I believe,” Ollie said delicately, and handed the mobile back.

“Julius,” Malcolm said quietly, and turned away. Ollie unabashedly eavesdropped on the half of the conversation he could hear. “....yeah. I’m fucking aware …not really, no, but I’m already … may as well … yeah.” Malcolm held the phone out to Ollie. “He wants to talk with you.”

Ollie didn’t want to talk to Lord Nicholson, but it seemed there was little choice. It turned out that Nicholson was nearly as creative at threatening death and dismemberment as Malcolm. Malcolm looked vaguely amused when Ollie ended the call. “He says I can have you until five o’clock,” Ollie said weakly.

The hell of it was, Ollie considered later, his notebook full, Malcolm’s ideas were _good_ . Dan had sat, mostly useless, in the corner, while Malcolm marshaled the staff, full of piss and vulgarity and mesmerizing fucking _charm_ that had Ollie half-convinced they could win. Prop up this candidate with appearances that appealed to her strengths while knocking down her opponent with the devastatingly-timed release of a photo Malcolm just so happened to have in his files. Move more resources here, a local tragedy had put the seat up for grabs. Release some new policy ideas that positioned the Party _just so_ on an issue of simmering discontent.

The staff was buzzing by the time Malcolm released them with a roar at half past five. And rather than trudging home, late already, they'd rushed to their desks and gone back to work. Ollie tried not to consider how things might have been if Malcolm had been with them the last two years. He also avoided eye contact with Julius Nicholson, who’d slipped into the room at precisely five o’clock and been glaring daggers at Ollie ever since.

Alone now, save Ollie, Dan, and Julius, Malcolm sat heavily and slumped down in his chair. “Fuck you all,” he sighed.

“Malc?” Julius asked gently.

“Yeah,” Malcolm said wearily, then slid his notes over to Ollie. “This is your action plan for the next three weeks. Follow it, and the narrative will be less ‘the Party is destroyed for a generation’ and more ‘scrappy final effort gives hope for future relevance.’”

“That’s really all you have?” Miller spat, enraged.

“No,” Malcolm said with a bitter smile, and flicked his gaze toward Ollie. “But anything else comes at a cost no one in this room is willing to pay.”

Then Julius was across the room, propelling Malcolm to his feet. “Enough,” he said forcefully, “we’re going, now. Good luck on your historic loss.” Julius slammed the door behind them.

“Pathetic,” Dan sneered. “The mighty Malcolm Tucker. I always assumed I knew who topped in that relationship but _clearly_ I was wrong. Probably can’t even get it up. He just bends over and takes it up the arse whenever Nicholson snaps his fingers.”

Ollie squinted at his boss. Boss for the next three weeks. Maybe. “Dan,” he said slowly. “Fuck off.”

 

—-

 

Julius sat with Malcolm’s head in his lap, toying with his hair. The television was on, something mindless neither of them was watching. The takeout neither of them had eaten had already cooled to room temperature. Julius had assumed that the unwanted political intrusion would send Malcolm pinging off the walls. He was getting a sinking feeling that things were headed in rather the other direction. _The fetid pit of numb fucking death,_ Malcolm called it.

“Hospital?” Julius asked quietly.

“Probably,” Malcolm admitted. “I’m sorry.” Julius leaned down and kissed him with a sorrowful sigh, but Malcolm didn’t respond.

“You okay for a minute?” Julius asked. Malcolm’s shrug didn’t inspire confidence. Julius carefully eased out from under him, and went to make the necessary calls. He was just getting off with Malcolm’s psychiatrist, who agreed that inpatient treatment was necessary, when the doorbell rang.

“What the devil?” he growled in irritation. The houseboy was gone for the evening, so Julius stalked down the hallway and wrenched the door open. “No,” Julius said, and moved to slam it in Ollie’s face.

Ollie, younger, quicker, and expecting the reaction, threw himself into the door. “I just need two minutes with Malcolm,” Ollie ground out, straining to keep the door open.

“If you don’t get the fuck off of my property, Reeder, I’m calling the police,” Julius responded, not particularly caring if he amputated Ollie’s fingers in the door.

“Let him in,” said a hoarse voice from within, and Julius was taken aback enough for Ollie to squeeze in.

Malcolm was standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking nothing like the firebrand who had rallied the Party’s troops that afternoon. _Fuck_ , Ollie thought, distantly. _He really is ill._

“My office,” Malcolm said, and Ollie scurried down the hall, sandwiched between the weary ghost in front and a thunderous lord behind. Malcolm held the office door for Ollie, then closed it square in Julius’s face and turned the lock.

“Malcolm!” Julius roared, and kicked the door. Then he was gone.

“You’ve got 90 seconds before he comes back with a key,” Malcolm said. “Speak quickly.”

“The bombs,” Ollie said. “ l want them.”

Malcolm pulled a stack of sealed envelopes out of a drawer. “One, two, three,” he said, handing them across, then a smaller packet. “And three options for a new leader, your choice. What changed your mind?”

Ollie grimaced. “You’d never believe me if I told you … The new leader. Who would you pick?”

Malcolm studied his old protege. “Ballentine,” he said at last, tapping the envelope on top. “I don’t know that she’s Britain’s next Prime Minister, but she’s a good human being and a fine politician. She’s who I wanted when we got fucking Nicola instead.”

Ollie nodded, and moved to flee before the enraged lord of the house returned.

“Wait,” Malcolm said, catching his sleeve, and pulled one more envelope out of his desk. “A  shield for you. No promises, but you might just come out alive. Now, I suggest you run for your fucking life.”

Ollie didn’t have to be told twice.

 

—-

 

It had the makings of a gorgeous day, from the bright early morning sunlight streaming across the bed. A glorious day, made better by the fact the Julius’s bed was finally properly occupied again. He rolled over and traced a line of kisses up his sleeping lover’s neck.

Malcolm smiled lazily, eyes still closed, and let Julius explore, shuddering lightly when Julius’s fingers brushed across sensitive skin. When Malcolm moved to reciprocate, Julius grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. Malcolm cracked an amused eye at him. “No,” Julius growled. “Just let me touch you, so I can be sure you’re really here.”

“And just where do you propose to touch me?” Malcolm drawled.

“Everywhere,” Julius breathed.

Malcolm obediently left his hands where Julius wanted them, and let Julius get back to work. “You don’t hear me complaining, love, as long as I get to watch you jerk off when you’re done.”

“Oh, I’ll expect you to _narrate,”_ Julius said, and Malcolm laughed. It sounded like heaven to Julius’s ears.

“Incidentally,” Julius continued, tracing circles on Malcolm’s navel the next time he came up for air. “Any idea why Claire Ballentine would send us flowers the day after the election?”

“Claire Ballentine, the …?”

“Yes, Malcolm, _that_ Claire Ballentine.”

“No fucking idea,” Malcolm said innocently. “As I'm sure you recall, I was in hospital.”

“Strange election, though.”

“Was it?” Malcolm asked.

“I have ways of making you talk,” Julius mock-threatened, his hand trailing lower.

Malcolm threw his head back. “Do your worst, you fucking bald poof.”

“Brave talk, for a man who is about to have another man’s lips around his cock.”

“Promises,” Malcolm gasped. “...promises. Oh, _fuck_ , Julius. Fucking _…._ fine, I exploded the election, just don’t fucking _stop_.” Julius wouldn’t have, not when he had the opportunity to fill Malcolm’s misfiring brain with effervescent endorphins. Julius fought back a prick of tears, which would have been utterly mocked if seen, at the feel of Malcolm willingly surrendering to a few moments of bliss.

Julius held him through the afterglow. Then Malcolm raised up on an elbow, gave Julius a wicked grin that was pure Malcolm and rolled to his stomach. For all that his own untended arousal ached, Julius hesitated. It was only the first morning home after another long and brutal hospital stay; sleep was surely the wiser option.

“Are you sure?” Julius asked, tracing Malcolm’s spine with one finger.  “I’d be more than satisfied with the previously-discussed masturbatory theater.”

“You did promise to touch me fucking _everywhere_ ,” Malcolm growled into the mattress.

Still undecided, Julius gentled his hands down Malcolm’s neck and back, and followed the path with his lips. “You’re a crazy fuck,” Julius murmured into his skin, speaking of many, _many,_ things.

“I am,” Malcolm agreed, and slapped at the bedside drawer for the lube, which he handed up to Julius. “But you love me.”

“Yes,” Julius said softly. “Yes, I do.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
